Batman, Retired
by Ugh That Guy
Summary: Bruce devoted too much of his life to fighting crime, and it's time he retires. But when Young Justice's arrogance drives Gotham in shambles, Bruce must decide between his retirement or the fate of the city. With the help of Nightwing, post-menopausal Cat Woman, and some other old friends, Bruce will fight the most difficult battles of his life. Rated M for language.
1. Chapter 1

Bruce Wayne was done being Batman. He was approaching 50 and he just wanted to relax, eat ravioli smothered in parmesan, and sleep like a normal person. The kids were taking over anyway, teens in better shape and with better knees than Bruce had from all the running and fighting he did for decades. So Bruce went on a trip around the world. He visited the French countryside, Mumbai—even though he still called it Bombay—and even traveled down to Cape Town, just to prove to himself that not all of Africa was just depressingly poor with every other baby getting eaten by a vulture. He went to Beirut, not for the history, but for the Jazz Festival. He drank dark beers and swayed in the heat to music that made no sense to him, sweating like he was trapped in a sauna.

He loved it all, but he knew he had to go back. Bruce had to show his face at Wayne Enterprises, even if he was hungover and miserable. So he eventually made his way back to his estate, finding Alfred just as he'd left him, sweeping the invisible dust off the porch. Alfred squinted as Bruce approached him, his face confused then surprised. Alfred opened his mouth but then closed it.

"Sir, you look different," Alfred said.

Bruce was out of breath from climbing the stairs to the porch. Maybe it was the afternoon sun getting to him, maybe the steps. How many were there, 10, maybe 20? God, it felt like a hundred. Why were there so many? He decided to demolish half of them. Immediately.

"You mean fat, Alfred," Bruce huffed. "I got fat."

"Sir, you only retired a few months ago. This is rather...sudden," Alfred said.

"It happens all the time. Look at what happened to Val Kilmer. Barbara Streisand. It's just what happens to retired people."

"Even Val Kilmer had a limit," Alfred countered as he opened the door for both of them. "When will your bags be arriving, sir?"

"Sometime tomorrow. I'm gonna go take a nap; the time difference from South Korea is killing me. And get rid some of these stairs."

And Bruce slept. He dreamed about Dick and his little friends, eager to fight crime, comparing battle scars and swapping stories about when they apprenticed under the adults. Bruce wondered if Dick thought about his old man, if he was eating right, not that downtown garbage with the greasy hamburgers that oozed American cheese out the center. It would make him fat, not that Bruce was one to talk, but it would slow him down on the chase, on the fights. Bruce wished he could see Dick, just to visit, see if he's all right. He was sure Alfred knew where the boy wonder was. Bruce was sure Alfred was sending him money.

"Master Wayne?" Alfred parted the curtains and let the moon shine on Bruce's face. "Your bags have arrived."

"You mean I slept for a day?" Bruce asked, groggily.

"More than that, sir. Approximately 28 hours." Alfred stepped aside to reveal a shadow behind him. "You also have a visitor."

Bruce squinted, but he couldn't make out anything in the darkness. He turned on the antique lamp next to him, revealing Alfred and Dick. Bruce fumbled out of bed and stood up to greet his former sidekick. "Hey, kid," he said awkwardly, almost ashamed of what he'd become. Unlike Bruce, Dick was in prime condition. His white shirt revealed the hard muscle built from training and fighting. The leather jacket that had been loose when he left home was stretched tight, pulling at the shoulders. He looked taller, past six feet, since the last time Bruce saw him.

"You must've missed me pretty badly, huh?" Dick asked. He grinned. "You look terrible."

Alfred served Dick a Juicy Lucy and Bruce a garden salad, no meat, in the dining room. Bruce watched with jealousy as Dick bit into the burger, watching the melted cheese slither out from between the patties and onto the plate. Bruce looked at his salad. How the hell was this considered a meal? How did anyone eat this and feel satisfied? He stabbed at the lettuce and eyed the kitchen door. "ALFRED, MAKE ME ONE OF THOSE!" he roared.

"Not unless you want a cardiac arrest, Master Wayne."

Fucking salad, Bruce thought. Not even Cape Town gave him salad as a meal.

"How's the Baby Justice League?" Bruce asked.

"It's Young Justice. And we're doing fine," Dick replied. "We're really learning how to fight as a team, you know? As they say, safety in numbers."

"You, uh, living okay? Eating okay?"

"Yeah. The government's actually paying us to fight crime. Pretty crazy, huh? Never thought I'd see the day," Dick said. He pointed the burger at Bruce. "You wanna bite?"

"Master Grayson, if you allow Master Wayne to eat your dinner, I will never cook for you again. Master Wayne, finish your salad."

Dick shrugged. "Sorry," he mouthed. "So, it looks like you're enjoying life on the...calmer side."

"You mean the Casual Male XXL side. Maybe you aren't wearing your contacts, because I'm bigger than a humpback whale."

"Hey, it happens. Are you, I dunno, depressed? Depression does that to people, you know. Did you consider seeing a shrink?" Dick asked.

"Listen, Dick-"

"It's Rich now."

Bruce took in a deep, annoyed breath. "Listen, Rich. I know you're not a little kid anymore, you think you know something about the world now, but you don't. You're young, naive, and trust me, there are plenty of things you don't know about me. And I'm sure as hell not depressed. I'm just at a point in my life where I feel like I don't have to be _that_ person, the guy who has everything, the guy every other guy hates. So what if I'm the size of Sears Tower? It makes me human."

"It's Willis Tower now, not Sears."

Bruce wanted to tell Dick to shut the fuck up.

Dick stood up and stuck out a hand, and Bruce reluctantly shook it. "Listen, I wish I could stay and chat, but tonight's a little on the busy side. I'll see you later," Dick said. "Good luck with the whole retirement thing."

"See you later, Dick."

"It's Rich."

"Yeah."

Alfred came out of the kitchen and led Dick to the front door. Bruce held up the silver tray to his face, just to see the damage one more time. Dick, he looked the way Bruce did half a lifetime ago, something Bruce could only sort of get back with Botox and plastic surgery. He couldn't help but feel jealous of his youth. Bruce's grizzly beard was peppered with gray, and his once sharp chin was blurred from the second one growing beneath it. Whatever, it's not like anyone cared anymore. Poison Ivy sent her son off to Brown, and Harley Quinn's daughter was getting married next June. Cat Woman only screamed over the phone from her fluctuating menopausal hormones, and Bruce couldn't even think about what the rest of the former women of his life were like now. He knew they were all getting old, and that was that.


	2. Chapter 2

Bruce was taking a nap when the phone rang. "Hello?" he growled. After seeing Dick last night, he opened not one, but four boxes of Italian Four Cheese Cheez-Its and drank two bottles of nicely aged wine from the cellar. He hated himself for it, but later found himself not giving a rat's ass, mostly because the worst had already happened. Ask his double chin and the gut blocking him from seeing his toes.

"Jesus, Bruce. You only answer when it's convenient, don't you?" Selina said. "Everyone has to wait for Bruce Wayne, because he can't be bothered—"

"What do you want?" he asked. His hangover was murdering him.

"Where the hell have you been?" she snapped. "The whole city is in _shambles, _divided by children and gangs, destroyed by villains and corrupt police officers!"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Bruce asked. He wondered if menopause treated all women this unkindly.

"Gotham, you pig-headed idiot. Since you retired, the whole city's gone to the seventh circle of Hell!"

"I just talk to Robin last night. He said everything was fine."

"Of course Robin said that. He said it so you wouldn't worry. He wants to fix everything like a big boy, but at this point, the damage is irreparable."

Bruce rose from his bed and took the two aspirin on the nightstand, popped them into his mouth, and dry swallowed. "What do you want me to do about it?"

"FIX IT," she yelled and slammed down the receiver.

Bruce shook his head. It's not like he was in the shape to do anything about it, and he had plenty of other things to take care of. He showered and donned his best suit, looking at himself in the mirror and adjusting the dimple in his tie. Were printed ties still in? He looked at the gold paisley print. Did this make him look like he had jaundice?

"ALFRED!" Bruce shouted. "WHERE ARE MY KEYS?"

–

Bruce drove through Gotham out of curiosity. He sped down the streets and saw nothing unusual, just the normal bustling streets crowded with people wearing Prada suits to Radiohead t-shirts. The buildings were mostly intact, with the exception of some foreclosed areas. The skyscrapers stood tall and reflected the sunlight of their windows, and Bruce imagined the people inside, playing Pong or whatever it was these people did for nine hours, probably bored and thinking about what they're doing tonight after work. If Bruce squinted enough, he could see the Bat signal at the top of the police department building, left out to rust from the acid rain. To Bruce, Gotham still looked like the city it had always been with Batman—a little dirty, but safe. Selina was going batshit crazy. Everything was fine.

Until he watched a group of kids rob an old lady.

Bruce accelerated and drove onto the sidewalk, slamming on his brakes and putting his car on park. He jumped out, running as best he could to catch the hooligans. "COME BACK HERE, YOU FUCKING BRATS!" Bruce roared as he stopped the chase. He was out of breath, watching them turn a corner. Not too long ago, he would've been able to catch them and beat the living shit out of all of them while returning the woman's purse within less than ten minutes. Now, well, it was just sad.

The old woman started to beat him, crying out for him to chase the kids down. He turned to her and shrugged. "They're gone," he said. "I'm sorry."

"Maybe if you were in better shape, you'd have caught up to them," she snapped. "You run slower than my dead dog! This wouldn't have happened if Batman were still here!"

"I _AM_ BATMAN!" Bruce wanted to yell. But instead, he pursed his lips and turned back to his Maserati to drive back home. A ticket rested on his windshield. He sighed, took it down, and drove off, vowing never to help anyone again.

Once Bruce was safely inside his mansion on the outskirts of town, he reached for another box of Cheez-Its that Alfred had graciously restocked, and a bottle of wine from the cellar. He never wanted to leave his house again to avoid further embarrassment.

"Sir?" Alfred had materialized in the living room as Bruce stuffed his face with fake Italian four-cheese flavored goodness. "I would rather you not spoil your appetite with that filth."

Bruce took a long swig from the bottle and turned on the television. _Teen Mom 3_ was on, and he really felt for Chelsea. Who cared if the whole city of Gotham went to shit? Even grandma deserved to get mugged. Maybe that would teach her not to be so mean to fat people, especially when that fat person was Bruce Wayne.

"Sir, I think you should go out tonight," Alfred said slowly. "There are some things you need to see."

"Like what?" Bruce asked.

"Gotham. It's not the city you left us," Alfred replied. "I think it's best that you see itwith your own eyes."

So Bruce sobered up and went on another drive. Alfred's comments made Bruce feel afraid but excited at the same time. It felt like long term relationship that just ended, the kind of relationship that made you feel good when the other person was worse off than you were. Bruce wanted to laugh at Gotham's pockmarked face, give her a well-deserved "FUCK YOU!", but once he arrived in the city, his face fell.

He drove slowly through the streets, and all the shops had closed their doors. The normally exciting, bustling city had died, with the exception of the sterile streetlamps. Bars were installed on every window, on every door. Everything looked abandoned, left hastily behind in fear of something, although Bruce wasn't entirely sure what. This was not the Gotham that Bruce remembered.

Bruce heard a high pitched whining noise. What the hell? He whipped his head around, looking to see where the noise was coming from, hoping to see cop cars, but he saw nothing. His windows shattered, and he felt something collide with the roof of his Maserati. It jumped down from the Maserati, and through the open window, a hand wrapped around Bruce's neck. The kid's face was covered with a balaclava, but his eyes were full of fear.

"Gimme all your money, old man," the kid said, pointing a handgun at Bruce's chest. "Give it _now!_"


	3. Chapter 3

Kids these days. They had no respect for their elders, Bruce thought. Oh, Jesus. He was starting to sound like his late father, or what he remembered of him. Bruce looked at the barrel of the gun, then the safety. It was still on. "If you're gonna try to rob someone, at least do it right," Bruce said.

"...What?"

Bruce pulled the door latch and shoved the door hard into the kid's chest, causing him to fly back and slam into the cracked asphalt street. The gun tumbled into Bruce's lap. He fumbled with it as he climbed out of the car—it had been a while since he'd held any kind of weapon—and took the safety off. Bruce raised the gun and pointed it at the kid sprawled out on the ground. _She_ had a ponytail. And breasts. Bruce lowered the gun. He didn't know why, but she reminded him of that girl from _Teen Mom_.

She groaned and tried to stand up, rubbing her chest with the palm of her hand. "God, I thought old people were supposed to be easy," she grumbled. "Where'd you learn those moves, Gramps?"

"I'M FUCKING BATMAN," Bruce roared laboriously. He pulled the gun back up to her chest. This girl needed to be put in her place. How dare she not recognize the iconic Dark Knight, even if he put on a couple pounds! And Jesus, all that movement was too much; Bruce needed to sit down. "I AM FUCKING BATMAN, AND I AM _NOT_ EASY, CHELSEA!"

"Whoa, 'Batman'," she said. "Calm your bitch tits. And who the fuck is Chelsea?"

Bruce took in a deep breath as a hand fell on his shoulder. Chelsea's accomplice. Bruce elbowed the asshole in the abdomen, which felt harder than the steel he used to reinforce the Batcave, and Chelsea's accomplice fell to the ground with a thud.

"Holy cheese and crackers," the voice croaked.

Bruce whipped around to find Dick on the ground, trying to get back up. His costume was black and blue like a bruise instead of the rather exciting color scheme of the Robin costume. Bruce felt anger simmer in his stomach. Was the Robin costume not good enough for him? Was he looking to get hit by a car?

"You might not be at the top of your game, but man, those reflexes are still there," Dick said as he slowly peeled himself off the sidewalk. Bruce extended a hand, but Dick didn't take it. "Hey, what happened to the girl?"

Bruce turned back to the street, and she had disappeared. He narrowed his eyes.

"Chelsea," he said.

"You know her?" Dick said.

"Did I hurt you?" Bruce asked playfully, reaching out to his former sidekick.

"Fuck you," Dick laughed.

Dick led Bruce through the deserted streets and back alleys, making Bruce feel like he was being led to a slaughterhouse. As Bruce trailed behind Dick, he finally felt the distance between them. The little boy wonder—Bruce's little boy wonder—grew up, a little too quickly. The worst part was, he grew up and replaced Batman.

To Bruce, being Batman had meant so much to him; it expressed his desire for revenge for the life he lost, but he could never truly grasp and savor the feeling. At the same time, he thought he was protecting others from the same fate, of dead parents and an orphaned child. Bruce had felt like the catcher in the rye, saving innocence through his need for justice, but Dick didn't feel the same way. Yes, Dick's parents were murdered too, but Bruce had made sure to bring him justice. Dick slept at night, knowing his parents were avenged.

Dick stopped in an alley way, right in front of a rusting garage door dimly lit by a flickering streetlamp. Long strands of ivy ripped apart the crumbling brick walls. The place looked abandoned, at best. He knocked on the garage door, slowly twice, then quickly three times. It slowly rose, revealing a bunch of kids no older than Dick gathered around a worn billiards table. Most of them held chipped glasses full of a piss-colored liquid, probably a cheap brew of beer they coerced a stranger to buy them. One of the kids stepped toward Dick, a large, white "S" stamped on his taught black t-shirt.

"The fuck is the old guy, Nightwing?" the kid asked.

"Superboy, meet Bruce Wayne. You know, Batman," Dick said, motioning for Bruce to come in. Dick took off his mask and stuffed it into his belt.

Bruce stepped inside the garage, and he smelled old vomit and stale cigarettes. Alfred and Selina were right. The whole town was turning into the Devil's asshole with these kids in charge. Bruce just wanted to knock this kid onto his ass, turn him inside out. He hated Superboy's black crew cut and cleft chin, the blue eyes and pounds of hard muscle. Superboy's face suggested he was barely 18, reckless and dominant from his surging testosterone.

"Bruce Wayne, huh?" the kid said. "Bullshit. Bruce Wayne is _cut,_ Nightwing. I don't know where you found this guy, but it looks like I've gotta teach him a lesson for lying." He took off his shirt and threw it onto the billiards table, showing off his sculpted body. He flexed his back muscles. "C'mon, _Batman_. Show me what you got."

Bruce shook his head. He already fought two people today; he didn't need to fight more. At the same time, breaking the smug-ass punk's Roman nose sounded very satisfying. Bruce threw down his sport coat and motioned for Superboy to come at him. The other young costumed heroes moved out of the way, clearing out a small patch of dirty cement flooring. Superboy and Bruce circled each other, arms out and ready to charge when the other least expected it. Bruce gritted his teeth. When was the last time he fought like this? When he was drunk in the Philippines? He guessed that wasn't too long ago; maybe a good six months had passed since that night Bruce fell into a cockfighting ring and defended himself from angry betters.

Superboy lunged at Bruce and wrestled him to the ground, pinning the old man with one arm while balling up his free hand. He swung, but Bruce caught the boy's fist, twisting it and then sucker punching him right in the gut. Bruce stumbled to his feet as Superboy doubled over in pain, raising both arms in the air in victory. That's right; this overweight, Italian Four Cheese Cheez-It loving fuck could still beat up a kid less than half his age. God, but when he thought about it that way...

Superboy tackled Bruce to the floor again, and this time, Bruce headbutted him right in the bridge of his nose. Blood spurted out of the boy's nostrils and onto Bruce's white dress shirt. Dammit, and he was going to wear that to his meeting at Wayne Enterprises tomorrow. Superboy rolled off the old man and wiped his face with his sleeve gingerly, his Roman nose was already purple and swelling from the impact. The Young Justice members stared in awe. Bruce looked over at Dick, who looked vaguely proud of his old man, or so Bruce hoped.

Bruce heaved and wiped the sweat and blood from his brow. "Can you just take me home?" he asked Dick. "I gotta go catch up on _Teen Mom_." Dick draped an arm around Bruce's shoulders, and they left the garage together, Dick waving goodbye to his young friends. The former hero and sidekick walked through the rundown streets and into the better side of town. It was brightly lit with young people outside in armchairs, drinking sangria and dancing to the soft bossa nova flowing out of the speakers. They walked into a glass structure with a marble lobby, where the old desk clerk smiled at Dick. "Mr. Grayson, just remind your father the payment's due next week now," the clerk said politely. "I apologize for the inconvenience."

"_Father?_" Bruce whispered, staggering towards the elevator.

"Don't worry about it." Dick nodded to the clerk and pressed the down button.

In the parking deck, Dick walked toward a white and black motorcycle and handed Bruce a worn helmet with flames on the sides. "You remember how these things work?" Dick teased. The black Ducati lettering flashed under the bright, fluorescent lights. From the looks of it, the bike was brand new. Where the hell was Dick getting this money from, and who was his "father"?Bruce crammed the helmet onto his head and clicked the clip into place. The helmet squeezed his face, and he felt like his head was a balloon getting ready to burst.

Dick started the engine, and Bruce gripped his former sidekick's waist. Dick accelerated out of the parking deck and into the early autumn night, the orange streetlamps slipping by them. Bruce stared into the bruise-colored uniform. "I NOTICED YOU'RE NOT WEARING YOUR ROBIN COSTUME ANYMORE," Bruce shouted, instantly regretting it. Maybe he shouldn't have brought it up. Was he even prepared to hear the answer? What if Dick hated him for just retiring? What if Dick moved on with his life, without the Dark Knight?

"WELL, THE JAMAICANS THOUGHT I WAS A RASTA, AND THEN SOMEHOW EVERYONE THOUGHT I WAS A DRUG DEALER, SO I THOUGHT IT WAS TIME TO GO A DIFFERENT ROUTE." Dick whipped his head around to catch Bruce's eye for just a second. "YOU LIKE THE NEW SUIT? I THOUGHT NIGHTWING SOUNDED PRETTY BADASS."

Bruce said nothing.

They pulled up at Wayne Manor, and Dick killed the engine. Both of them stood in the long driveway not looking at each other, filled with thoughts but not with words. They muttered their goodbyes, and Bruce started up the long, arduous staircase leading up to the front door. He stopped and turned around, hoping Dick was still there, waiting for his old man to tell him a thing or two. But Bruce was alone, drunk on adrenaline and sick with loss.


	4. Chapter 4

"So you're basically telling me you stopped investing in weapons," Bruce said slowly, letting the words fall out of his mouth. He glanced at the woman across from him, who took off her thick, black-rimmed glasses. She had thick waves of blonde hair that reminded Bruce of the low tides in Hawaii. Her black dress was too modest; it hid her cleavage and her thighs, which would have been more interesting than her two-hour presentation about Wayne Enterprises' future. But her eyes, they were knives. She wasn't here to fuck around.

The blonde turned to Alfred. "Mr. Pennyworth and I had a discussion about this months ago. Weapons are on their way out. It doesn't matter what the NRA says; with all these shootings and...other mishap occurring across the US, the last thing you'd want is a protest outside for your endorsement of violence and warmongering," she said, handing Bruce a packet. He opened it up and flipped through the pages. It was data, surveys, and research from respected psychology journals, even sociology texts**.** Bruce knew he'd never actually read it, but he took it anyway.

"So what's the alternative?" Bruce asked as the woman stood up. They walked towards the door, and she held it open for him. Bruce hesitantly walked into the hallway.

"Beauty products. Mostly makeup," she said.

He cringed. "What about all this feminism shit that's going on? You're just making me trade in bad publicity for more bad publicity."

She shook her head and smirked. "You don't understand feminism, do you, Mr. Wayne? It's not bra burning and 'down with all men' spirit we're after. Wearing makeup doesn't make someone _against_ feminism; it has nothing to do with that. Makeup is power, Mr. Wayne. It makes a woman powerful, feel powerful. Like she can conquer the world. And it sells. It'll sell now; it'll sell in the future—women will always need makeup. It's worth investing in, Mr. Wayne. Trust me." She walked away, and Bruce watched her ass sway to the rhythm of her Louboutin heels against the marble floor.

"Master Wayne, shall we go?" Alfred asked.

"I think I'll walk," Bruce said.

Surprisingly, Bruce actually took a walk. He thought he would find himself in a taxi with a bottle of bourbon and some chicken fried chicken, but he kept walking. He passed by Sarah Lawrence, Dick's college, and wondered whether he was learning things Bruce could never teach him, broadening his mind and scope of the world. Or if he was just in his apartment, tripping on shrooms and fucking that one girl he brought home a year ago.

What was her name? Siobhan? Alannah, Yseult? Bruce couldn't remember, but it was something ridiculously Irish. They probably weren't still together; she had a mouth like a whale shark and a voice higher than squealing hinges. When Bruce asked about her name, she had claimed in her Southern accent, "I am Catholic to the _core_, Mr. Wayne. My parents have instilled strong values in me that will never be shaken." She had said it with her right hand under the table, probably giving Dick's thigh a good squeeze.

Bruce wished the blonde had done the same as Yseult had done to the boy wonder, but she indirectly called Bruce an ignorant fuck instead. Maybe he should start reading again. He looked at the papers from the blonde, and then he remembered all the addenda and jargon. Maybe he should start with something easier.

He climbed the steps to the public library, but he didn't go inside. What the hell was he going to check out? Did he still have a library card? Bruce looked inside his wallet and rifled through his cards. It wasn't there. Maybe he'd just sit inside and read a magazine.

Bruce picked up _National Geographic_, _Newsweek,_ and _Vogue_ in hopes of reading the articles. He cracked one open, but his eyes started wandering around the room. And then his eyes fell on Dick. The boy wonder was surrounded by a pile of books, but he was more focused on Superboy, who bawled into Dick's gray Sarah Lawrence sweatshirt.

Dick looked up and caught Bruce's gaze. He motioned for the old man to come over, but Bruce shook his head. It was probably about the short brawl they had last week, about how Superboy felt emasculated when he was bested by a disgusting, out-of-shape grandpa in front of his peers. Dick put his hands together. "Please?" he mouthed.

Bruce sighed and stood up, shuffling towards them. Superboy continued to bawl, snot dribbling down his cupid's bow, while Dick motioned at an empty chair. "Hey, guess who's here? It's Bruce Wayne," Dick said. He elbowed Bruce in the ribs.

"Uh, hey, kid," Bruce said. Dick motioned for him to continue. "Not a good day, huh?"

"DAD'S BEEN DEPORTED," Superboy said. "THE GOVERNMENT DEPORTED HIM."

The federal government found out about Clark Kent's illegal status. All the idiosyncrasies, even a picture of the rocket, had all been painstakingly documented by Martha Kent to eventually show Clark when he was ready. Once the Kents' came forward about Clark's origin, he rejected the idea and ran away from home, in hopes of finding himself. Clark's relationship with his adoptive parents was never quite the same after; he called home every week only to give vague answers to prying questions. Martha had tried everything. She gave him everything, and yet he had written off the past seventeen years without batting an eye.

The only thing Martha knew for sure was the fight against a certain bald evil genius. Even if she couldn't help her son in any other capacity, perhaps she could save him from an early death. So Martha had confided within said evil genius in hopes of appealing to his pathos, a sort of "look, he's had an identity crisis too; can you two just let it go?" thing, but it instead fueled a different desire. In Martha's will, she entrusted the documentation to Lex Luthor, who in turn sent it to the government. Clark didn't even get a chance to see Martha's wake.

"AND NOW DAD'S A MEXICAN DRUG LORD!" Superboy wailed, collapsing in the chair. Tears stained the front of his shirt and the wooden library table. He had cried enough tears to fill the Hoover Dam, and Bruce was surprised the boy wasn't dehydrated.

"Wait, but he isn't actually a Mexican drug lord," Bruce said. That would be completely against what Superman stood for; he was justice—the clear, straightforward kind—not a crooked piece of shit. If Clark were a drug lord, then Bruce was a...he couldn't make an analogy. Or was this metaphor? Synecdoche? Now he was just throwing words out there, unless synecdoche wasn't a word. Fuck, maybe it was time he read an actual book.

"Canada wouldn't take him," Dick finished. "I think Mr. Kent's running around as law enforcement in Juárez or something. He wanted to stay close to Superboy, just in case."

"How's Lois?" Bruce asked. He still remembered the scent of her hair, cigarettes and peonies, the last time he saw her. She was hunched over her desk, typing on her Royal and slamming the carriage back into place while streaming curses under her breath. She commanded he get some coffee, light roast with two percent milk, and a pack of Virginia Slims. Was it just Bruce, or did women always slap him around?

"She's trying to overturn the deportation," Dick said, nodding at Superboy. "C'mon, I'll need some help taking him back to Columbia."

Dick and Bruce hoisted up Superboy with their shoulders and half-carried, half-dragged the suffering lad out of the library. Superboy's sobs had lessened to hiccups as they took the bus leading back to the university. Bruce and Dick dropped off the boy in his room, tucking him under the sheets. He was drunk on his own sorrow, too filled with self-pity or guilt to say anything.

Dick sat on the bed and stroked his friend's black hair. "He'll be okay," Dick said. "He's Superman."

Superboy turned over and faced the wall.

Bruce put a hand on Dick's shoulder, and they both walked out of the dorm. There was nothing they could do, but Bruce was proud of the boy wonder's dedication to his best friend. He turned out to be a great kid, even with all the awful life lessons Bruce inflicted on him through vigilantism. All of Bruce's parenting mistakes flashed before his eyes. Man, he messed up _a lot_. If it wasn't for Alfred, Bruce had no idea what kind of person he would have raised. Dick would've probably ended up in a psych ward.

"Thanks," Dick said, sticking out a hand.

"Yeah, sure," Bruce replied, shaking it.

"Cool."

"So."

"What now?" Dick asked quietly. "It looks like everything is falling apart. We don't know what the hell we're doing." He pressed his face into his hands. "We're all just a bunch of stupid kids. We weren't meant for this. I mean, all we did for the longest time was just follow you superheroes around and do what you told us. And now we don't have that; we just have each other. One person thinks we should do this, another says we should do that, and that just leaves us with groups everywhere, fighting over who protects what. We're all just a bunch of thugs. How are we any better than the criminals we're fighting in the streets? And we fucked up the Brooklyn Bridge."

"Oh yeah," Bruce said. "The bridge."

Dick shook his head. "Anyway, I'll see you later."

The boy wonder walked away, and Bruce felt that he should've said something reassuring or empowering. The problem was it was all true. None of the Justice League had trained their sidekicks to be without them. Each superhero thought his kid would just learn by doing, but it didn't work. None of them raised their kids right, and now the world was suffering.


	5. Chapter 5

The city of Gotham was still in the process of rebuilding the Brooklyn Bridge. The reconstruction's pace was slower than Bruce's dead parents, with long, steel beams piled everywhere, cranes and compactors and excavators littered all along the edge of the East River. For months, there had been no construction workers and no surveyors, because Gotham had no funds left to continue the repairs. Rich knew there was no money in the bank, but the mayor sought solace in the obvious lie of the bridge's supposed rebuilding.

All the city's funds were hemorrhaging out to corrupt officials and to Young Justice. So many young, budding superheroes came to the city looking for work, knowing that there was some extra asskicking to do with the retirement of Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman, and many others. Many were idealists—they were here to restore order, peace, confidence. Instead, Young Justice turned Gotham into a shit show. The city ran rampant with criminal activity, and more than half the police force either retired or accepted bribes, causing Young Justice to blame each other for the massive spike in Gotham's fuckedupness. The group of young heroes split into factions, fighting each other for turf to protect, or sliding over to the dark side to earn more cash on top of the government's generous stipend.

But none of the members of Young Justice had any idea what they were doing. Some only fought petty crime, claiming to protect the weak and innocent, while others hunted down big projects, scouting out the docks for highly illegal activity. Everyone had a different idea of what a superhero was, and none could be consistent.

Rich wondered if he could rally the rest of Young Justice into working together while slumped in the teal velvet armchair. Each arm had many burnt holes from cigarette ash, the velvet smelling like a stale cigar shop. Did anyone remember what the Justice League, their mentors, had taught them? It didn't matter that they were all different people with different backgrounds and different ideals—nothing would get done if all they did was fight over everything.

Everyone else around Rich knocked back cans of Natural Light, dancing to Kid Flash's shitty dee-jay playlist. Almost all of it was Skrillex songs from 2011, with a few '90s cover songs by pop-punk bands. This happened every Friday at Rich's faction of Young Justice's hideout, which was cleverly called Hideout. Supergirl charged $20 at the door, except for ladies in line before midnight. Rich hoped that the funds would go to new equipment, or repairs on the old, hand-me-down Batmobile, but instead the cover fee went to a pink neon sign to hang above the grungy entrance, Hangout written in all caps sans serif. That, and liquor. So much liquor.

"DON'T FUCKING TOUCH ME!" Wonder Girl shouted, drunkly roundhouse kicking someone in the chest. He flew into a brick wall, frat hat soaring into the air. The other boys shrank back. "I AM DRUNK. THAT DOES NOT GIVE YOU THE RIGHT TO TAKE ADVANTAGE OF ME!" she growled, slowly raising her fists.

The group hurried toward their unconscious friend and rushed out the door, Supergirl holding the door for them. One of the frat boys winked and licked his lips. She sucker punched him straight in the nose. "Blacklisted," she said, "I mean, if you didn't catch that already."

Rich helped Supergirl usher the rest of the crowd out as Kid Flash cut the music. Wonder Girl somehow made it to the brown leather couch by herself and rolled onto her side, groaning. "What is wrong with men nowadays?" she asked as Rich placed a pillow behind her head. "Do they just think we exist to fuck them?"

"Just think if you weren't Wonder Girl," Rich said, draping his leather jacket around her. "Just think about what would happen if you were an average human girl who was smashed. Bad things could have happened."

"Rich, could you not be depressing as fuck for once?" Wonder Girl asked. "It didn't happen, I'm not a normal girl, and let's just move past this."

"Are you listening to yourself?" Rich turned to Supergirl and Kid Flash. "We're supposed to be protecting the innocent, the defenseless, but look at us! We _invited_ those people to come! We just okay-ed their shittiness!"

"Hey, man, calm down. No need to get worked up about this," Kid Flash said, putting a hand on Rich's shoulder. "It's just one time. It's not like this shit happens all the time."

"BUT IT IS!" Rich shouted. "IT _IS_ HAPPENING ALL THE TIME! HAVEN'T YOU BEEN LISTENING TO THE NEWS? HAVE YOU BEEN GOING OUTSIDE AT NIGHT? DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH CRIME THERE IS NOW?"

Supergirl stood up. "I don't need to listen to this," she muttered while stomping out the door. It slammed shut behind her.

Wonder Girl groped the air, trying to grab ahold of Rich's arm. She must have been seeing double, since she held the air instead. "Look, honey," she slurred, "I get it. You wanna be _righteous._ You wanna be _the hero._ But guess what? No one believes in us anymore. No one gives a shit about us. What the hell is gonna happen if you get a real bad injury, huh? You think the doctor's gonna try his best to save sweet old Nightwing? Well, guess what? They're trying to kill us off, just like Native Americans. This town hates superheroes_. _All we've done in their eyes is destroy everything and kill people. So just enjoy what the city's giving you before they amend any of the Superhero Laws."

Rich looked at Kid Flash, who shrugged.

Fuck, Rich thought.

–

Bruce stabbed at the salad Selina Kyle made him, which contained cucumbers, lettuce, and tomato only. The dressing was lemon juice and olive oil—mostly lemon juice—making his lips pucker. Fucking salad. Bruce shoveled the lettuce into his mouth. Fucking fuck.

Selina rewound the news as Bruce violently finished his meal. "So this blonde woman," she started, pausing the screen. It was The Blonde, her voluminous, golden retriever-blond hair turned into massive waves reflecting the flashes from the photojournalists' cameras. Her glasses were gone; her golden eyes focused on the audience, her red painted lips half-open in speech. She was glorious, and Bruce shrank at her beauty. Had he been in the same shape as he was last year, he would have a massive hard-on, but now he was all too conscious of his sad sack appearance. "Deirdre Deasey. I heard she's very skillful when it comes to business," Selina said, tracing the edge of her glass with her index finger. "Smart lady. Pretty too. Is that why you picked her, Bruce? Did you need a young, buxom woman in your life again?"

"My board of advisors picked her while I was out of town," Bruce grumbled, grinding cucumbers between his teeth. "I still can't believe Wayne Enterprises is investing in skincare and feminine products."

Selina shrugged. "How's little Dick? Is he still in school? Fighting crime?"

Bruce stared at his empty bowl. How was Dick? Was he doing well? Did he miss fighting crime with Batman? Was he eating right? How did his final exams go? That's a thing they still do in college, right? Final exams?

"Dick is fine. I think," Bruce replied.

Bruce thanked Selina for the meal and drove himself home in his new Bentley. The Maserati was thrown into a junk yard on the outskirts of town, mostly because Bruce wanted a new car. The Bentley was a custom jade green and rumbled when he stepped on the gas. He loved it almost as much as he loved watching _Teen Mom._

Bruce dragged himself up the main stairs, heaving when he reached the top. Right as he was about to reach the door, Alfred opened it for him. "Master Dick is inside," Alfred said, handing Bruce a handkerchief. "Please wipe your face, sir. You're dripping with sweat."

Bruce dabbed his face with the hankie and went inside, Dick sitting on the leather couch. He looked smaller since the last time Bruce saw him with Superboy, muscles missing somehow. Maybe Dick was working out less. His leather jacket didn't seem as snug, just looser, like it had grown. Was something wrong? Oh God, did Bruce have to play father? Where was Alfred?

Dick stood and smiled. "Hey, old man," he said. "What's going on?"

"Nothing much. Just had lunch with Cat Woman," Bruce said, sitting down. He wiped his face again. "What about you? You don't usually visit."

"Oh, you know. Just checking up on my favorite retired superhero," Dick said, elbowing his mentor. Bruce looked at the kid's face, and he looked tired, worried.

"Is, uh, something wrong?" Bruce asked.

"Well, um. I think that, uh, Superboy may have skipped the rest of the semester to go to Mexico."

"...Why the hell would he do that?"

"To go look for Superman."

"Oh, Jesus Christ. Is there anyone without daddy issues in Gotham?"

"And none of the Teen Titans want to fight crime anymore."

Bruce whipped his head around to look at Dick. He narrowed his eyes. "You're joking."

Dick shook his head and sat back down on the couch. Bruce joined him. The era of superheroes was over; maybe it was unfair of the Justice League to force these kids into these roles. Maybe they were all horrible parents forcing kids to fight at a young age. In any case, it was too late. The sidekicks were adults with ideas and feelings and dreams. Bruce only wished he knew what Dick wanted, but he was afraid to ask.


	6. Chapter 6

Bruce, like almost everyone in the galaxy, hated Juarez. He felt heavy drenched in sweat and constricted by his tight Spanx. He finally understood why women stopped wearing corsets but felt glad that when he looked in the mirror, his lumps were gone. All he could think about was Superman's unwavering physique; the difference from Clark's youth was his graying temples, soon to be the color of salt. In fact, Bruce couldn't think of any other differences—no wrinkles, or loss in memory, or muscle deterioration. Can't win with fucking aliens. Bruce's sweat bloomed under his pits. He'd only been outside for five minutes.

"Alfred, are you absolutely sure he's here?" Bruce asked, lowering his Tom Ford sunglasses. "I don't see this asshole—I mean, Clark, anywhere."

"Sir, Mr. Kent is right behind you."

"C'mon, Alfred. I'm not gonna fall for that." Bruce turned around and almost bumped into Clark's hard, muscular chest. Clark still looked like he was carved out of 6' 7" marble, his chin still sharp and strong. Bruce touched his own chin and remembered he had two. It looked like the Spanx wouldn't fool anyone, just himself.

"What brings you down here, Bruce?" Clark asked, rolling up his white linen shirt. The buttons on his chest were tugging against the linen, on the edge of bursting and hitting Bruce in the face. Just another reminder, if he had already forgotten, of what Bruce had lost in his retirement. Whatever. Bruce had intellect. He didn't remember what the hell synecdoche was, but that wasn't important. Wait, wasn't that a city in New York?

"I'm, uhm, I'm looking for Superboy," Bruce said. "He left school to see you."

"He lefT SCHOOL?!" Clark shouted. "What do you _mean_ he left school?! Does he know how much money Lois and I spend to pay for his tuition?! EVERYTHING that I do for that brat, my CLONE, _everything_ . . . it's like he doesn't even _care!_" Clark narrowed his blue eyes at Bruce. "Does Dick do this? Is he just as _ungrateful?_"

"Whoa, hey. You and Superboy have a very different relationship than Dick and I." Bruce was not about to get caught in this melodramatic shitstorm.

"Superboy needs a good swift kick in the ass to set him straight. Where is he?" Clark put his hands on Bruce's shoulders and shook them. "Where in the hell is Superboy?!"

"Jesus, Clark," Bruce said, with vibrato as Clark continued to shake him. Bruce regretted coming here. He wanted to go home.

–

Nightwing held his foot on Scarecrow's neck. "Tell me what the hell you did," Nightwing growled as Scarecrow writhed under his foot, choking. He pressed harder. "Tell me _now._"

"You couldn't kill me if you wanted to," Scarecrow replied, laughing. "Batman taught you well, didn't he? You seek his approval so much that you could never kill anyone, in fear of losing his fatherly love. Or do I smell a little bit of an Oedipus Complex here? Your love for daddy—is it _sexual,_ boy wonder?"

"Fuck you." Nightwing twisted his foot against Scarecrow's neck. "I don't kill, because _I_ think it's wrong."

"Or because you're weak," Robin chimed in. "Just kill the bastard; he'll just get out again. In fact, let _me _handle it."

Scarecrow coughed, and Nightwing moved his foot to Scarecrow's chest. "The anesthesia is all there! This town is too messed up to do anything quickly anymore. You have to plan months in advance and ask for so much permission from all the turf wars . . . what the hell happened to this city? You can't get anything done here, not even a little . . . _experiment _. . ."

"Robin, just tie him up."

They tied up Scarecrow and dropped him off at Arkham Asylum. Nightwing climbed into the hand-me-down Batmobile, while Robin slid into the passenger seat. "So, what now?" Robin asked. "Gonna go beat up some muggers? Catch some robbers? Pay a visit to Penguin?"

"I gotta go study for my exams. Next time," Nightwing said, starting the engine. He backed up and zoomed towards the bridge.

"Aww, come on. This is the first time in _months_ that I've been fighting crime. I've just been going to school and playing soccer. We can't just go back already! It's too early!" Robin crossed his arms against his chest. "Besides, you're an English major. What kind of studying do you even need to do?"

"Plenty. I'm dropping you off at Wayne Manor, and you and Alfred can figure something out."

"You're a bad brother, and an even worse friend."

"I try."

Alfred was waiting in the Batcave when they drove in. Damian immediately jumped out of the car after Rich parked, running past Alfred and up the stairs to Wayne Manor. Rich sighed and shook his head as he grabbed his civilian clothes. The year had been hard enough with his thesis, but with the retirement of the Justice League and the fuckery that was Young Justice, Rich wondered if he should stop his superhero career and move on with his life. But, in a way, wasn't this a test? If Rich, Nightwing, could survive through this slump with his little piece of Young Justice, the Teen Titans, then maybe there would be hope. Maybe Wonder Girl, Supergirl, and Kid Flash would finally realize they do love fighting crime and would come back around. Or he could just give up and go to UC Irvine for grad school.

But what about Damian? Now that Bruce was retired, who would mentor him into becoming a good superhero?

Rich rolled up his Nightwing costume and stuffed it into his backpack. He reached for his leather jacket. He felt sore from beating the living shit out of Scarecrow; it had been a while since he had worked out. His jacket felt loose everywhere—not nearly as fitted as it was months ago. Even his Nightwing suit sagged in places. Damian was in better shape than Rich was, and he was a 10-year-old.

Rich waved goodbye to Alfred, who handed him a check for the apartment. Rich hesitantly took it. "Master Rich, it is all right to need and accept help, especially if it is offered to you," Alfred said. "It is also all right to ask for help, if you need it." He looked Rich in the eye. Alfred might have been old, but he was the smartest, most intuitive person Rich had ever met. Rich averted his gaze.

"I, uh, should go." Rich held up the check and smiled sheepishly. "Thank you."

"One more thing, Master Rich," Alfred said as Rich pulled on his helmet. "He doesn't say it, but Master Bruce appreciates your visits."

Rich nodded and climbed onto the Ducati. He slammed on the gas and zipped through Gotham, and he should have felt free, with his leather jacket slapping against him, with the roads nearly empty under the dim orange glow of the streetlamps. But all Rich felt was the weight of fear in his chest. All he felt was trapped.


	7. Chapter 7

"I just want both of you to know that this is a safe place, and all the thoughts we have in this room are not meant to be hurtful, or mean, or . . . Jesus, I sound like my _mother_. But you get the fucking point. But I want you both to say how you feel. Get your feelings out there. Both of you." Bruce put a hand on Superboy's shoulder.

The clone continued to scarf down his ceviche, shoveling piles of dusty pink cubes of raw tilapia spritzed with lime juice, pieces of fresh cilantro stuck in his teeth. "Uh huh," he said absentmindedly.

Clark buried his head in his hands. "Superboy, for once in your life, could you take someone else's life into consideration? Could you STOP EATING?" He grabbed a hand full of Superboy's thick, glossy black hair and pulled his head up to look him in the eye. Bruce saw the fear in the kid's eyes, genuine, unfiltered fear, and he wondered if any of the Robins ever felt that way around him. Bruce's mind flashed back to all the times he had snapped at them, gripping them with his large, strong, adult hands, his face so close to theirs that their noses almost touched. And the yelling. When he yelled at them so loud his face was red and the veins in his neck pulsed so hard that they almost snapped. Bruce thought of Dick. Was their relationship just as fucked as Superboy and Clark's?

"I just . . . I haven't eaten in days," Superboy whimpered. His eyes hesitantly shifted towards Bruce. Superboy looked down at the table. "I'm . . . I'm sorry."

"_Are_ you sorry? Part of me thinks you're never truly sorry, Superboy, about _anything_," Clark spat. "You know what you are? You're a burden. That's all you _fucking are_."

"I sense a lot of hostility here," Bruce said. "Where is this coming from, Clark?"

Clark's cold blue eyes glared at Bruce. "I never asked for a clone. His very existence makes me feel _violated_. _Raped. _For God's sake, if someone made another version of yourself, Bruce, would you feel comfortable looking at it? Raising it? Making it your own?"

"'It'?!" Superboy shot up from the table. "I'm an 'IT'?! Why can't you just treat my like a person, Dad? Why can't you just treat my like your son?"

"Because you're not my _fucking son,_" Clark snapped. "You're not a _person_.

"_You're my fucking clone_."

–

Rich and Damian watched the city above, the city rampant with crime. Where did they even start? Did they stop Harley and Poison Ivy first? Or the drug shipment at the pier, with cocaine hidden in pineapples? What about Two Face, or the group of kids mugging the little old ladies coming back from their book club?

Damian rolled his eyes.

"Let's just do the easy stuff first, and then get to the hard stuff," Damian said, pointing at the young muggers. "This'll be over by the time we finish up with Harley and Poison Ivy, or the drug bust. So come on! What are we waiting for?"

Rich sighed. Damian was right; they had to do what they could, or nothing would be done. Rich was especially afraid of what Harley and Poison Ivy would do—his fear stemmed from their unpredictability. What would their motive be? Who would they target? Rich didn't even have an inkling.

"Ahem."

Rich and Damian turned around, and saw some of their old friends. Red Robin, Kid Flash, Wonder Girl, and Starfire stepped towards them. "We came to help," said Starfire. "We _want_ to help."

Rich smiled and nodded.

Wonder Girl chose to fight the hoodlums alone and would meet Kid Flash to track down Two Face in a piano bar downtown, while Damian and Red Robin at the Industrial Park to take down Poison Ivy and Harley. Starfire and Rich would go bust the drug shipment at the pier in Manhattan.

Damian looked at Rich and raised an eyebrow. Rich ignored him.

"So, how've you been?" Rich asked Starfire, who looked own the passenger side window as he sped through traffic in the hand-me-down Batmobile. The gears didn't shift as smoothly as they used to, and with each change, the old Batmobile jerked, causing them to lurch forward and feel the seatbelts tighten and pull them back into the worn leather bucket seats.

"I've been accepted to Northwestern's botany program. I think I'm gonna go, and, you know, see if I like it," she said, tracing patterns on the window. Her green eyes glowed in the reflection. She turned to Rich. "What about you?"

"I, uh. I've been fine," he said.

Starfire frowned. "Very convincing," she said. "I thought you seemed unhappy."

"What do you mean?"

"I can sense it." She touched his hand. "Rich, when are you going to learn that you need to stop doing things for other people, just for the sake of pleasing them? When are you going to think about yourself?"

Rich glared at Starfire. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you can't take care of everyone, and that you should take care of yourself."

"I'm not a selfish bastard."

"That's the problem," she said. "You need to be selfish once in a while. No one else is going to live for you."

Rich opened his mouth, but then immediately closed it. She was right. He needed to do the things he loved, genuinely, passionately, not do the things he felt safe doing. Rich knew crime and how to fight it. He was strategic, clever, agile, strong—but was this really what he wanted for the rest of his life? Or was he just trying to please Bruce by following in his footsteps? Rich shook his head. What did he truly want? He wasn't sure.

He parked the Batmobile in an alley, and he and Starfire scoped out the area, finding the place teeming with armed guards. Rich silently took out some, covering their noses and mouths with his arm until they became unconscious. He and Starfire dragged the passed out guards away from the area, behind some shipment containers. If they kept going after a few at a time, it would take all night to finish the drug bust, and the leader would definitely learn that the superheroes were there once most of his henchmen were gone. Rich and Starfire were sure to get shot at, and they could be in serious danger. What they needed was a distraction, but what?

Rich ran back to the Batmobile and drove full speed towards the docks.

"IT'S THE FUCKING BAT!" someone shouted.

"THAT ASSHOLE'S RETIRED, YOU FUCK!" someone else replied.

"WHO THE HELL CARES? GET RID OF HIM!" a man in a white linen suit shouted, grabbing onto a guard's shoulder a shoving him towards the car.

The guards unloaded rounds and rounds of bullets into the Batmobile, some ricocheting off the dull black body, while others barely lodged themselves into the steel frame. Once out of bullets, the guards stopped and waited for the dust to settle, to see their impressive work before their very eyes. The Batmobile was utterly fucked. Dents everywhere, two of the tires flat, and all the windows partially shattered. Batman had to be dead; there was no way in hell he could live after that.

"Hurry up and grab all the goddamn pineapples," said the man in the white suit. "If you fuck one up, it'll cost you your life, just like Batty over there."

"Actually, I think it's best _you_ leave, before it costs you your life," Starfire said. The huge, looming guards ran like raging bulls at her, but she easily flipped them, forcing them to land hard on their backs, creating craters in the concrete. The others stepped back, afraid of the young woman with green glowing eyes.

"Someone fucking shoot her!" the man shouted.

"None of us have any bullets, sir!"

"FUCK ME!" the man in the white suit shouted while the guards ran off as fast as they could, but it was too late. Gotham City Police had them surrounded, the cops swinging their handcuffs in their hands. They cuffed everyone they could, even the pile of unconscious henchmen, while Starfire opened the driver's side door of the Batmobile and discovered Rich bleeding in several places.

"Oh, sugar," she said.

Starfire helped Rich out of the car and took him home, struggling to fly in the air back to Wayne Manor with her former boyfriend. Before she could softly knock on the door, Alfred swung the door open and ushered the two of them inside, antiseptic, a needle and thread awaiting Rich in the dining room.

"Master Rich, you did a foolish thing," Alfred said, gingerly stripping the Nightwing suit off Rich. It didn't seem to fit like it used to, Alfred noticed. How strange.

"Alfred, don't tell Bruce," Rich muttered. He winced as Alfred pressed the antiseptic into a wound. "And not a single word to Damian."

–

Bruce held Superboy in his arms as the young man cried on the plane. Sobbed, really. So much sobbing that Bruce was surprised Superboy wasn't dehydrated. But anyway, Bruce's little therapy session didn't work at all. Clark hadn't realized anything except the justification for his negligence as a parent, while Superboy learned that he, no matter how hard he tried, would never win Clark's affection. That was just the way with some parents, it seemed. The well of love was dry, and it could never be filled. Bruce thought of Lois and her toughness, how she would live off Virginia Slims and red eyes for days, sipping that blend of coffee and espresso as she finished her articles. She wouldn't be able to give Superboy the kind of support he needed; she didn't have the patience, the interest, or the time.

"You can come to me for anything, Superboy," Bruce said, patting the kid's back. "You're always welcome in the Bat family."

Superboy wiped the tears from his eyes and looked at Bruce. The strong, square jaw, the cleft chin, the cold blue eyes, the jet black, side-swept hair —it was startling to take in all Superboy's features and see how he looked exactly like Clark in his younger years. Bruce knew he wasn't the best parent, but he could be better than Clark, more loving and open and warm.

"Thanks, Bruce," Superboy said. "And please call me Conner."

"All right, Conner." Bruce smiled. His linen shirt was soaked from all of Conner's tears.

Conner carried all the luggage back to Wayne Manor, while Bruce heaved himself up the steps. Jesus Christ, he thought he had told Alfred to get rid of some of them. Bruce knocked on the door, and Damian answered, opening the door with barely contained excitement.

"Did you bring me anything back from Juárez?" Damian asked.

Oh shit.

Bruce looked at Damian with alarm. He had completely forgotten about his son. The _biological_ one.

Alfred handed Bruce the newspaper as he walked in, Conner trailing closely behind. Damian asked Conner a long list of questions about Juárez, about Superman, about deportation, which Conner, surprisingly, answered calmly and thoroughly. Bruce was impressed. Perhaps the talk in Juárez had provided some kind of closure for Conner, whether the kid consciously realized it or not.

Bruce read the front page of the newspaper. "THE ROBINS SAVE THE DAY!" the headline read, an image of Red Robin and Damian grinning like two idiots right in the center. "Who in the hell is Red Robin? Why would this idiot name himself after a burger chain?"

"That's Tim Drake, sir."

Bruce buried his face in his hands. "Oh, Christ." It looked like he had fucked up his kids worse than he had previously thought.


	8. Chapter 8

Alfred placed the whole, 20-pound turkey crammed with stuffing at the center of the dining table as the focal point of the Bat Family dinner, mostly for Bruce. The former Dark Knight was banned from consuming red meats, instead receiving most of his daily value of iron through raw spinach. Bruce grumbled as he drowned the emerald leaves in red wine vinaigrette and piled them into his mouth. Bruce always maintained his will to live, even during the trying times of his rivalry with Superman, but after all of the high mountains of romaine, arugula, red lettuce, and spinach, he had definitely lost it.

"Is that really all for us, Alfred?" Tim asked, eyes glittering from all the choices Alfred had crafted—garlic mashed potatoes drenched in gravy, and blood red fra diavolo, and fried pork belly dressed in honey and rosemary, and grilled lamb kebabs fragrant with apple wood chip smoke, and freshly-baked butter rolls still warm from the oven. There was more, much, much more, but Bruce couldn't look. As he side-eyed the stack of dry rub ribs, he caught Alfred's "I swear to God, Master Wayne, you touch those, and I'll be feeding you tofu and small boned fish for as long as I live" looks, Bruce sat defeated as Damian happily butchered the turkey and served the hacked pieces to his father.

The rest of the Bat Family (plus Conner) enjoyed the feast, stuffing themselves full of the cuisine most of them missed dearly—aside from Bruce's awkward pats on the back and the incredibly rare hug, Alfred's cooking was what made Wayne Manor home. Honestly, no one gave a shit about the crystal chandeliers, or the one-of-a-kind, handcrafted furniture, or even the Bat Cave. What each former (and current) sidekick loved most was the love and attention Alfred had always given the food at Wayne Manor, which was the way Alfred had all shown them his love. On the worst of nights, when Bruce would go back to his study and sulk after a loss or an incredibly disturbing revelation, Alfred would sneak into their rooms with soft, gooey chocolate chip cookies and a glass of warm milk, sitting on the bed and listening to the kids silently stifle their sobs from Bruce's sharp ears.

When Alfred wheeled out the bread pudding and key lime pie and croissant donuts filled with vanilla bean whipped cream, the kids exclaimed "goodness, Alfred!", "you shouldn't have", or "Oh God, I'm already the mother of twin food babies". But they all thanked Alfred and graciously ate their desserts while Bruce stood up and walked away to his study.

The kids were all right. Well, Tim had named himself after a burger joint, and Jason probably needed therapy, but they all sat around the table to tell stories, even making Conner feel as if he had always been one of them. Barbara recounted her adventures fighting crime alongside her father, who had recently taken over the identity of Batman, Jason mercilessly punched Dick in the balls (metaphorically) about everything, and Cassandra, Tim, and Damian listened to all of Conner's exploits in Juárez. They were a family, arguably the most loving in the Justice League, and it brought tears to Bruce's eyes. Or the tears were from the desserts he couldn't have. Honestly, he couldn't tell.

"You useless sack of shit. First, you can't pick an actual brain to run your company, and now you can't even tell your kids to get their acts together and fight crime as a team!"

Bruce squinted and saw a dark, busty silhouette sitting on his white oak desk. Bruce turned on the light, and Selina stood up, throwing some things at his chest. He caught them and looked at the containers—Youth Serum with Ginseng Extract, Skin Brightening Exfoliator, Anti-Wrinkle Oil Cleanser. Bruce squinted at the back of the labels: Wayne Enterprises, Inc.

Bruce looked up and regretted it. The skin on Selina's face was agitated and peeling with redness down to her neck. Her lash line looked sparse, while her eyebrows looked singed. She looked a lot like those burn victims Bruce had to stomach years ago when he went overseas to pretend to give a shit about third world countries. Selina glared at Bruce so hard that he dropped the containers onto the floor.

Selina pointed to her face. "All the women, girls, and gays who bought your product look like this. I know you only watch the news at my place, but the media is _up your company's asshole_ about the 'natural, organic ingredients' Wayne Enterprises insists it's used."

"Wait," Bruce said. "The gays?"

"YOU KNOW THEY LOVE SKINCARE!" she shrieked.

"Jesus, I'm sorry. _I'm sorry_," Bruce said, unable to look up from the hardwood floor.

"BRUCE, LOOK AT ME! _YOU_ DID THIS TO ME!"

"What? No! No, I didn't!"

Bruce looked up and tried to look past Selina, but he couldn't. All he could do was stare at her splotchy skin now even splotchier from the redness arising out of her anger. Dammit, he just couldn't win.

"Oh my . . ."

"Jesus Christ."

Bruce turned his head to the door frame and the kids openly stared at Selina's face, cringing. Dick grabbed Damian's and Cassandra's shirt collars and attempted to drag them back to the dining room, but they dug their heels into the carpet and gripped onto the door frame's crown molding. "C'mon, guys. Let's leave them alone," Dick said. "It's rude to eavesdrop."

Conner picked up Cassandra and Damian and carried them away, while the others reluctantly left. Dick was about the close the door when Bruce invited him in.

"I need you to do something for me," Bruce said.

* * *

><p><p>

Why Bruce couldn't just walk into Wayne Enterprises and tell Deirdre a thing or two was beyond Rich, but he went anyway. Rich had prepared a list of talking points, like whether or not the ingredients were tested before they were mixed together or if the quality of the ingredients affected the product's results, and he rehearsed over and over in his head to sound articulate and intelligent and benign.

Rich knocked on the door, and he strained to hear Deidre's deep, muffled voice say "come in". He stepped inside, and she was leaning against her desk, her dark gray pencil skirt taught against her hips and thighs. Deirdre's powder blue dress shirt was unbuttoned half way down, a gold necklace dangling dangerously close to her pushed up cleavage. Rich raised an eyebrow. Who the hell hired her? And wasn't she a blonde? When did she dye her hair _red?_

"Dick Grayson," she said, her voice like velvet. They shook hands, and Rich thought she was crushing his fingers into powder. "It's nice to finally meet you. I've heard so much, from Lucius and Alfred."

"It's Rich now," he said. He sat down in one of the chairs in front of her desk. "And it's nice to meet you as well. We have a lot to discuss."

"Oh?" Deirdre crossed her arms against her chest and smirked. The rims of her black lace bra peaked through her shirt. "What exactly do you want to discuss?"

"It's about the customer issues from the new skincare line," Rich said. "Obviously, there are issues with the ingredients, if customers are having problems all across the board."

"So Bruce sent you to do his dirty work for him?" she scoffed. "What exactly does a _boy_ know about business?"

"I know enough to know that you didn't test any of these ingredients, and that either the labels are lying, or the ingredients are just poor quality. I'm guessing the former. That, and the combination of the ingredients _on the label_ shouldn't result in extreme skin irritation; none of these products should on most people. And yet, within several uses, many customers are boycotting Wayne Enterprises' products, putting up pictures of their faces all over social media. Most of them look like they have rosacea, and the hair on their faces looks burnt. So what exactly are you playing at here, Deirdre?" Rich asked. "What's really in those bottles?"

Deirdre smiled grimly, her eyes burning into Rich's. "You know, I think _Dick _suits you better," she said. "And I appreciate all the detective work, honey, but it was a _bad batch_. I've apologized for that oversight, and Bruce has met with some of the unfortunate victims. We've refunded all of the dissatisfied customers their money. So we did what we were supposed to do as a company."

"I tested some of those products," Rich said slowly. "They contained acetone peroxide, which is a chemical used in explosives. What exactly was it doing in a wrinkle cream, or an cleansing oil?"

"Get out of my office," Deirdre spat. "Or I'll kick you out."

"Nice meeting you," Rich said.

He walked out of the office and searched for Lucius Fox, who had to know about the company's issues in the past month, right? Rich went to Lucius' office, which seemed abandoned. He drew a line in the layer of dust on the desk and flipped through a report tossed into the in-box. May 5, 2015—that was a month ago. The pages indicated that sales had been steady, although a lot of funds had been spent on the new skincare and cosmetics line. "To be expected," it read in the margins; Lucius always believed you had to spend money in order to turn a real profit in business. At the end of the report, firearms technology that Wayne Tech was best known for had been put on hold, for now. But some of the existing products not sold in the past month seemed to have gone missing in the warehouses. "Internal theft" was written in hasty handwriting. "Must verify inventory at once."

Rich shoved the report into his backpack.

"Diets aren't just about eating less, Mr. Wayne," Conner said as he easily completed his fifth set of 100 pull-ups. "It's about exercise too."

"But why can't everyone just accept me for who I am?" Bruce asked, heaving on the treadmill. "Why can't everyone love the new me? Why do I have to be handsome, in-shape, 'doing it better than you' Bruce Wayne? Why can't I just be a normal guy, who gave up on this rat race called life, who enjoys eating steak tartare and half a cheesecake on occasion?"

"Because you're not healthy, and I don't want you to die!" Damian shouted. "Your life isn't just about _you_ anymore!"

Bruce stopped walking, and almost smacked himself into a wall in the Batcave. He turned off the treadmill and shuffled over to his tweenage son (he could hardly walk; the chafing in his thighs was killing him), pulling him into an awkward hug. Damian cried into his father's shoulder, unabashed, sobbing into the shirtsleeve already damp from Bruce's sweat. As he held Damian in his arms, Bruce realized that he had done a great amount of stupid shit in his life, including his entire career as Batman, and he should probably behave like an adult. Bruce had lived a pretty hedonistic life, much to his own chagrin. Even with the kids, he hadn't grown up much to suit their needs. Bruce felt a sharp wave of ambivalence—pride in all of the Robins (and Batgirls), but also fear of the absolute fuckedupness that might have attributed to their already fucked psyches. For fuck's sake, was he really doing a better job of taking care of Damian than he did with Dick almost a decade ago? But who was to deny Bruce of his pleasures? The man had to live for something, which was food (and fucking, although would any once-willing Gotham socialite look twice at him now, unless it was out of disgust?) – the two "F"s that had sustained him for this long. Well, there was also revenge, which didn't start with an F, or feel as good as the other two.

But perhaps he could live for something else, _someone _else . . .

Damian pushed his father away and bolted out of the Batcave. Conner turned to Bruce and nodded, chasing after the kid.

"Would you like a drink?" Alfred asked, holding up a handle of bourbon as he descended down the stairs.

"But what about the calories?" Bruce countered.

"No more than three," Alfred said, pouring a highball glass to the brim. "I can overlook today."

So Bruce sat with Alfred and drank only three glasses of bourbon, not savoring the taste but straight up drinking for the alcohol content. Bruce wondered if three highball glasses were enough to sink the buoyant feeling of regret and figured he might as well try. But as Alfred struggled to drag Bruce's heavy, sweating body up the stairs out of the Batcave, Bruce's half-conscious brain, swimming in bourbon and self-loathing, thought that perhaps it was time to become a real father, no matter how late to the game he was.


	9. Chapter 9

Lucius Fox lived in the most luxurious of condominiums; he owned the penthouse of the third tallest complex in New York. The condo was always so clean that Rich never believed anyone actually lived there; run a finger on any surface, and it would always come up clean. On every windowsill was a Zygopetalum, neon yellow and blood red upper petals with a bright purple lip.

Lucius was mostly a homebody and refused to accompany Bruce anywhere, choosing a glass of Chablis and a Miles Davis album over Bruce's exploits. So Rich expected Lucius to be home and curled up on the sofa, or caring for his orchids. But instead, when Rich knocked on the door, no one answered.

"Lucius! Lucius, it's me!" Rich shouted. He pressed the buzzer frantically. "Are you all right?"

The door creaked open. Lucius looked exhausted, emaciated, eyes yellowed from jaundice. He smiled weakly. "Mr. Grayson, so nice to see you. Please, come in." He glanced at a corner of the ceiling, and Rich followed the man's gaze. A camera. They were being watched, but, by whom?

"Would you like something to drink?" Lucius asked, putting a kettle on the stove. "I have some of the white tea you enjoy so much." His hands shook violently as he scooped three ½ teaspoons into a tea ball. "It seems that you found me in quite a hurry."

"I just . . . well, Bruce asked me to find you and ask you something." Rich put a hand on Lucius' shoulder. "It's about _Wayne Tech stock_." Rich looked Lucius in the eye and then rolled his eyes towards the camera. "How do you feel about Bruce shifting its focus to _GPS technology?_"

"A good thought, Mr. Grayson. However, even though GPS technology has come a long way, some people are rather difficult to find, _unless you know what to look for._" Lucius rolled up his sleeve slightly to reveal the blistered skin underneath. "I must ask you to apologize to Mr. Wayne for me; it seems that I've had a bad case of allergies, possibly from _my orchids_. I haven't been well enough to attend meetings at Wayne Enterprises for two months." Lucius slipped a pocketknife into Rich's hand.

"I'm so sorry, Lucius. I know how much you love them." Rich walked over to the windowsill and examined the Zygopetalum. If only he had brought Starfire; she would have known what was wrong with it immediately.

The door slammed open. Rich whipped his head around, and Harley Quinn swung her oversized hammer over her shoulder. "Get outta here, brat. You've been snoopin' around for a _little too long,_" she said. "I thought we told ya _no visitors_, little man!" She started after Lucius, who grabbed the whistling kettle from the stove and threw the boiling water at her.

She shrieked, holding her face in agony. Using the pocketknife, Rich picked off a sample from the orchid's purple lip and turned to Lucius, who motioned for the young man to leave.

"But, Lucius—"

"I'll be all right," Lucius said, grabbing Harley's hammer.

"We'll see who's gonna be all right!" Harley kicked Lucius into a wall, paint running off her face. She looked so much older than Rich remembered, the wrinkles embedded into her skin, knuckles like tree roots. Harley lunged at Rich as he descended the stairs, but Rich hopped over the railing, hearing her slam hard into a cinder block wall.

"Owwwww," Harley whined. "Someone call me an ambulance..!"

He ran down the next flight of stairs and opened a door leading to the 8th floor. He furiously pressed the down button, the elevator taking its sweet ass time to open its doors. Elevators, Rich thought. Should've just continued down the stairs. So Rich went back into the stairwell and slid down the railing, listening to Harley howl in pain.

Down in the parking garage, Rich hopped on his Ducati and sped off, touching the pocket of his jacket. He felt like the orchid sample was burning a hole through the leather and feared for Lucius' life; Rich's escape would only mean a more severe punishment for his friend. Rich wondered if he could still save it all—Wayne Enterprises, Lucius Fox, even Bruce—but he also wondered if he was too late.

–

Lois stepped out of Conner's room and closed the door. She wiped her face before Bruce could get a good look at her; Lois Lane doesn't fucking cry. She's interviewed concentration camp survivors and vets from Afghanistan and Iraq. She's been in war zones, spoken to Syrian refugees, illegal Cuban immigrants who came to the US on rafts. Clark might be the man of steel, but Lois was the woman of steel, keeping a detached view of everything. But Conner, clone of her husband, broken and sweet and _so damn naive_, no, it didn't break her heart that Conner could never be part of her life. Bruce handed her a box of tissues, but she waved it away.

"I don't know why you thought I could help," Lois whispered. "I don't know shit about kids, let alone clones." She pulled out a pack of Extra and offered Bruce a stick. "It's okay; there's zero sugar."

"I can't. It'll make me hungry." Bruce had just finished a bowl of quinoa and some bullshit small-boned fish that Alfred ordered from the market. Damian had just introduced the term "hangry" to Bruce, which was all he felt these days: hangry. Bruce now just salivated at the thought of barbecue chips—no smell or taste needed, just the idea. It had been so long that he wasn't sure they were real at all. Ugh, the smell of smoked paprika. Could anything smell so beautiful?

"If you want to play Daddy with him too, be my guest. But if it's too much, just remember that Clark's wounds are too recent for you to appeal to his pathos." She reached for the banister. "Oh, and Bruce, I'm pretty sure I made him—" she pointed to the door, "—cry." Lois bent over the banister, down the stairs and towards the dining room. "ALFRED," she shouted. "DO YOU MIND GIVING ME A RIDE BACK TO THE TRAIN STATION? Jesus, I need a smoke; _fuck quitting_. CAN WE ALSO STOP BY A CONVENIENCE STORE?"

Bruce leaned his head on the door. Fuck, they sure were right when they said "no good deed goes unpunished"; he tried to help Superboy by mediating with Clark and attempting to show Clark that Superboy was more than just a clone. Was this even a good deed, or was Bruce looking for validation that he's been a good father, or at least better than Mr. "I'm So Perfect" Superman? That went way too deep into Bruce's psyche that he shut out the thought immediately.

Damian pushed past him and into the room. "Hey, you—" Bruce started.

Damian slammed the door shut and locked it. He sat on the bed next to Conner, who was still wiping the tears from his face. Damian pushed a plate of cookies into Conner's lap and handed him a cup of warm milk. "From Alfred," the ten-year-old said. "He always gives the Robins milk and cookies when we're trying to hide our tears."

"Thanks." Conner put the cookies and the milk on the night stand, and Damian knew he wouldn't touch them. Really, it was Damian who snuck the treats out of the kitchen and hoped that Conner would eat them. Even when Damian tried his damnedest to be the toughest little shit that ever existed, Alfred would always stroke the damp bangs out of his face as he lay in bed on the worst of days. And even though Damian would turn over and pretend the ounce of affection Alfred had shown him had no effect, Damian would still feel the tears trickle down his face and know that at that moment, someone loved him. He hoped that Conner at least felt like someone understood that pain, even though Damian suspected that he would never really know what it felt like to never feel the love of a father.

"So, Superdad. Not that super, huh?" Damian asked, still staring at the milk and cookies.

"Look, I'm all right. Really." He ruffled Damian's hair and smiled. "Lois is right. All I can hope is that with time, the scars will fade, and Superman will be able to open himself up and accept me. And Lois said I can see her any time. I think I'm gonna spend the rest of the summer there in Metropolis."

"Oh." Damian bowed his head. "I thought you'd . . ."

"Hey, I skipped a semester, remember? I'll be back in August, munchkin." Conner pulled him into a headlock. "Don't think I'll forget about you, buddy!"

"I know you won't forget us. Obviously," Damian said.

"Here." Conner grabbed a cookie and broke it in half, crumbs littering the bed sheets. He held up both pieces. "This is my promise to you. I'll be back after two weeks of hanging out with Lois this summer. Just two." Conner handed the bigger of the halves to Damian. "You have to eat it, or I can't promise you anything."

Damian crammed the whole piece into his mouth and chewed. Conner handed him the milk, but he refused. Damian could eat it just fine, without the help of milk. Screw milk, Damian thought. How helpful has it been, anyway? He was still shorter than Tim was when he was ten.

The door flew open, and Damian almost choked on his piece of cookie. He took the milk and gulped it down like it was the enemy.

"Am I—am I walking in on something?" Rich asked.

"You make it sound like I should have my dick out," Conner snapped.

"Hey, Damian. Remember when you and Tim were busting down Harley and Poison Ivy a couple weeks back?" Rich asked. "What were they doing?"

Damian shrugged. "Nothing. They were just hanging out in an abandoned warehouse in the industrial park. They just threw their hands up in the air and left; Tim and I couldn't bring them in for _anything. _I mean, it's not even trespassing."

"I think we need to check out that abandoned warehouse again."

–

Damian and Tim pointed to the most rundown warehouse in the whole area. "That one," they said.

"Really?" Rich asked.

"What, were _you_ there?" Damian asked. "Anyway, why are we even here? I told you they weren't doing anything."

"Lucius' orchids had some special concoction on them, and the effects are debilitating; Lucius looked gravely ill. The chemical compound looks similar to what's already in Wayne Beauty and Skincare, samples that Selina graciously gave to Bruce. When I visited Lucius, Harley barged in on us, and when it comes to plants, well, you know our only suspect." Rich pulled out a kit from the dashboard. "We'll have to swab the warehouse for samples; stealing anything could warrant a disaster. Plus, we don't know what any of the chemicals can do, let alone what Deirdre can do to _us._"

"What's that dumb blonde going to do?" Damian asked as they all jumped out of the Batmobile. "She can't take us. Well, she could take Batdad."

Damian picked the warehouse's lock, and they entered, searching for any signs of clues. Tim felt along the walls for any switches, pulled manuals for the rusting machines for a secret passage, while Rich scanned the floor for any signs of a door. Conner used his x-ray vision to see if there was anything they were missing, and Damian stood next to the door, arms crossed.

"I'm telling you guys, there's nothing here," Damian said. "They're just trying to spook us!"

"I see something." Conner pointed to a spot on the floor with rickety boards. He kicked at the splintered wood flooring, and it broke apart to reveal a rusted wheel. Conner turned the wheel counterclockwise, and it squealed with every spin. After five turns, he pulled the latch and jumped down, the others following suit.

The tunnel was dark as shit with Conner leading the way and Rich in the back. They walked quietly, cautiously, afraid that someone might still be inside, perhaps even watching them look like a bunch of dumbass kids in a tunnel. Just like Scooby Doo, Rich thought. They walked, walked, walked, and eventually, Conner stopped. He felt a handle, but the door was locked. Damian squinted at the doorknob and attempted to pick the lock, hearing the click of success every time, only to have the door still be jammed.

"It's an easy lock! It should just open!" Damian whispered harshly.

A low, soft rumble began, and it deepened, causing the entire tunnel to vibrate and then convulse. The boys were thrown to the sides, gripping onto whatever they could to keep themselves steady. Rich and Conner looked at each other, fear in their eyes. They were about to be in some deep, metaphorical horse shit, and this time around, neither of them had their mentors to save their asses.


	10. Chapter 10

"SOMEBODY DO SOMETHING!" Tim yelled. "CONNER, USE YOUR LASER VISION!"

"NO, DON'T!" Rich shouted. "WE DON'T KNOW WHAT KIND OF GASES ARE IN THIS TUNNEL!"

"FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK," Conner said.

Damian pulled himself towards the troublesome door, lock picking tools clutched in his right hand. Part of Damian—all right, _most_ of him—wanted to kick down the door, but the repercussions of the intrusion could lead to terrifying consequences. Mainly for a particular fat fuck father. So Damian picked and picked, gripping the tools so hard that his hands felt numb. He took in a deep breath; if he thought about it, the lock wasn't going to open. Damian let his fingers listen for the right sounds, manipulating each pin in hopes of a successful click. As he maneuvered his picking tools over and over, this way, that way, not too hard, or the pins would lock, but not to gently, or nothing would happen. Finally, he felt the pins give, and the knob turned.

Damian shoved the door open, and everyone ran in, Conner slamming it shut behind him. Around them were a shit ton of large, upright capsules, filled with clear liquid. And each tank contained a kid, no older than Damian, with artificial umbilical cords feeding them electric blue fluid. Rich stepped towards one and bent over, squinting at the label. _Cassandra Cain 4.1,_ it read. He walked over to its neighbor. _Damian Wayne, 1.1. Timothy Drake, 3.2._

Rich stood upright.

_Holy shit._

"This is fucking whack, man," Conner said, staring at each of the tubes.

"Bro, this is how we found _you_," Tim said.

"What the actual fuck?" Rich whispered, putting a hand on a capsule. "What are they—why…this is _fucked_. So morally fucked."

Damian reached out and placed both hands on the glass, examining his clone. He squinted, trying to see if there was anything missing, anything different, anything wrong. The clone jerked, its arms slowly rising to meet Damian's pressed palms. It placed its hands against the glass, spreading its fingers. Its eyelids fluttered open. "Help me," it mouthed.

Damian staggered back and fell, crawling away on his hands and feet. Tim rushed over to his side. "You all right?" Damian pointed to the capsule, and Tim turned his head. The clone was clawing at the glass.

"We have to help them," Tim said. "We can't just leave them like this."

Conner shook his head. "They won't live outside these things. They're missing organs."

Rich looked around, scanning all the equipment around them. Beakers, flasks, chemicals, all clear with different compound symbols, but nothing volatile. Rich picked up a clipboard, flipping through the pages. The language was full of scientific jargon, but Rich understood the cramped handwriting and unsympathetic analysis of biopsies. These clones were going to be scrapped. Failures. He flipped over the aluminum clipboard. WAYNE TECH. He placed it back and grabbed an Erlenmeyer flask, looking at the etched name underneath.

PROPERTY OF WAYNE TECH.

"Shit," Rich said.

He ushered all of them out the door and back towards the latch, Conner escaping first to help everyone else out. Rich tightened the wheel, and he felt it vibrate as he turned it. Damian and Tim gingerly fitted the floorboards back, and they bolted out of the abandoned facility, Damian wrapping the chain around the door handles and closing the padlock.

"Hurry up, Robin!" Tim shouted.

"Attention to detail! ATTENTION TO DETAIL!" Damian yelled back.

They hopped into the Batmobile, and Rich slammed on the accelerator, all silent on the way back.

Bruce had to starve himself because of all the extra alcohol calories he drank with Alfred. Bruce dreamed of lemon ricotta pancakes with a drizzle of Vermont maple syrup. Well, maybe more than a drizzle, like a gentle pour. Okay, so the pancakes were drenched in syrup, the pad of butter melting into a pool at the center. The buttery softness of the pancakes could be sliced with a fork with the gentlest press, the creamy texture of ricotta in his mouth, the slight sweetness, the hint of lemon from the slivers of rind folded into the batter…

"Sir," Alfred said, dropping a heaping pile of romaine in front of Bruce. "Is there something on your mind?"

The saliva in Bruce's mouth instantly dried up.

He had been daydreaming all day, never able to focus on anything no matter how hard he tried, like clenching a numb hand. Maybe it was his brain trying to tell him to consume more calories, which explained the back-to-back, feature film-length reels of food porn every time he closed his eyes. He sadly looked down at his plate, at the voluminous amount of romaine, goddamn fucking romaine lettuce, the bougie cousin of iceberg, camouflaging its friends, heirloom tomato and Persian cucumber, deep inside its green leaves. Bruce picked through it like a mother combing her son's hair for lice, and found not only romaine's friends, but also quinoa and salmon. Alfred folded his arms against his chest, and Bruce shamefully shoved a pile of romaine into his mouth.

"Alfred, I know you sneak the kids cookies and milk," Bruce said.

"I know you know, sir."

"Am I, am I a good parent?"

Alfred took in a deep breath.

"So that's a definite no." Bruce pushed the salad away and buried his face in his hands.

"Master Wayne, one is not always a good parent. That, in itself, is an impossible feat. But you are loving and understanding, and at times stern, perhaps too much so. But look around you," Alfred said, and Bruce looked around the empty dining room. "Well, not now. But there is so much love that they all feel for you."

Bruce nodded, but all of the scoldings he inflicted on each of the Robins came back to him, the last one the ultimate wedge that destroyed his relationship with Dick. Was it love that kept the Bat Family around, or Alfred? Or their craving for approval, like Conner's relationship with Clark? Daddy issues, Bruce thought. Man, they fucked everyone up.

Dick, Damian, Tim, and Conner rushed into the dining room with horrified expressions, slamming the door behind them. They all turned their heads and saw Bruce and plastered fake "everything's fine!" smiles on their faces.

Bruce narrowed his eyes.

"Alfred, do you mind if we talk to you in the kitchen?" Dick asked, placing an arm around him and steering the butler towards the door. "We, uh, wanted to discuss dinner."

"Yeah," Conner chimed in. "Uhm, we wanted to, uh, talk about a graduation party."

"Yo, you didn't even graduate, Conner!" Tim shouted. "You're taking summer classes!"

Conner turned to Tim. "You're officially not invited."

"What? ALFRED!"

Bruce cleared his throat. He gagged a little, choking on a piece of heirloom tomato.

The Robins plus Conner froze.

"Where the hell were all of you just now?" Bruce asked calmly.

They all looked at Dick.

"Out. Getting ice cream," he said.

"Tim's lactose intolerant."

"He had sorbet."

"Ice cream places don't sell sorbet."

"Fine, so it was gelato, not ice cream."

Bruce glared at Dick. "Let me ask you again. Where were you? Just. Now."

Damian stepped forward and took in a deep breath.

"TherewasanabandonedwarehousewherewecaughtPoisonIvyandHarleyQuinnandwefoundthissecretlatchandwewentdowntothisweirdtunnelthatblastsairwhichledtothislockeddoorthatIpickedopenandithadtheseclonesofTimCassandraandmeandDickfreakedandweleftinahurrybutDON'TWORRYTHEY'LLNEVERFINDOUTWEWERETHEREIPUTTHECHAINANDLOCKBACKON."

The others looked at Damian, not sure if they were eternally pissed or terrified.

Bruce turned to Dick.

"We need to talk."

So off they went to Bruce's study, where he shoved all the empty containers of Wayne Beauty that Selina pelted at him into a drawer. Dick shut and locked the door behind him. "Look, this isn't going to be easy to swallow," Dick prefaced. "I didn't tell the others."

Bruce leaned back in the chair, and it groaned from the weight. "Well, what is it?"

"It's her. Siobhan, the blonde. Well, now the redhead. She's plotting against you."

Bruce narrowed his eyes. "And how do you know that?"

"She's driving Wayne stock down by launching those faulty beauty products, and someone's stealing Wayne Tech weapons. Lucius found out, and he's been poisoned, trapped inside his home. Harley came after me when I was there trying to get information—the place is bugged. And the, the clones in that warehouse. Everything in there says 'Property of Wayne Tech'. They're plotting against you, Bruce, all of us."

Bruce fell out of the chair.

Normally, Rich could take all the pieces and put them together. Criminals were complicated, but most of them overestimated their own abilities, which made them slip up. Over the years, Rich realized almost everybody thought they were smarter than they actually were, and almost no one deserved the compliments they gave themselves. Rich always told himself that he knew what he didn't know, acknowledging that there were things and ideas and thoughts that were beyond his reach, like aerospace engineering and theoretical mathematics, and that was good enough for him. Being a know-it-all made life a huge pain in the dick.

With all the pieces Siobhan had left behind, Rich couldn't understand what it all meant. Driving Wayne stock down, selling faulty products, stealing Wayne Tech equipment and weapons, creating clones of the Bat Family. What was this all leading to? Rich looked at his post-modern literature paper on the power and weakness of women, the fake sense of power they wield over men, only to be overridden by the very tangible, real power that men hold over them. The last paragraph just read:

Bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb.

He took his elbow off the keyboard.

Something rubbed between his legs, and he picked up Socks, who squealed. On one of the very last missions the Teen Titans actually finished, Zsasz had picked up a new hobby of vivisecting kittens, but also running his second round of orphan knife fights. After watching Gotham PD haul Zsasz off to, hopefully, Arkham Asylum, Rich had discovered a kitten hiding under the steel table, yellow eyes glowing in the dark. The others told him to leave it, it'll come out eventually and fend for itself. But Rich came back in the morning, leaving a can of Frisky Cats for it every couple days until it became comfortable around him. He discovered it was a she, with black fur and white paws, and he took her home, asleep in his arms. Socks, he decided to name her, after she ruined half of his, looking guilty.

Socks rubbed her face in his, white paws on his shoulders. "What should I do, Socks?" Rich asked. She stopped trying to eat his hair and stared at him. "Should I help Bruce, or should I start on my grad school applications?"

Socks meowed and leaped down to the floor.

"Yeah. That's what I thought you'd say." Rich deleted the last paragraph and started over, mind still preoccupied with the Blonde and her intentions, with Bruce and the Bat Family. Rich wondered if he could really leave them and Gotham behind, like Kori, and begin a new life without them. Rich wondered if he would feel free and unburdened, feel like he was actually living a life.

The guilt shrouded over him.

And finally, he found the words for his last paragraph.


End file.
